


A Burning Hill

by Anonymous



Category: Persona 5, Persona Series
Genre: Abuse, Alternate Universe - No Metaverse (Persona 5), Borderline Personality Disorder, Bulimia, Eating Disorders, M/M, Mental Health Issues, Mental Institutions, Self-Harm, Suicide Attempt
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-12-10
Updated: 2020-12-10
Packaged: 2021-03-10 05:41:19
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 896
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27959315
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: There was nothing more he had wanted in this world, but death.Evidently, this was something he was not allowed to have.
Relationships: Akechi Goro/Kurusu Akira, Akechi Goro/Persona 5 Protagonist
Kudos: 38
Collections: Fanfic Anonymous





	A Burning Hill

**Author's Note:**

> Heed the tags.

_Dying_

_Is an art, like everything else_

_I do it exceptionally well_

He is fifteen when he first tries.

He is fifteen when they find him laying on the bathroom floor. Blood swiftly pooling around his wrists. It was an accident, an experiment having gone wrong. He did not intend for this to happen. When they question - as they always do - this is what he tells them. It was merely an accident, and nothing more than that. So they do the expected, they keep him in the ICU. Day by day they repeat the same questions, all of which go unanswered. 

He is seventeen when he makes a wonderful discovery. It is one where he figures out how to disrupt the proper process of digestion. Forcefully, he sticks two fingers down his throat, and like magic, whatever he had consumed comes right back out. It is something which gives him a disturbing amount of satisfaction. 

He turns this into a routine. It is something he later considers normal. There is no reason for him to be labelled, it is simply nothing more than a considered lifestyle.

Acid burns at his esophagus, his hands become irritated, filled with sores and dry patches. He thinks all of this is fine, it is nothing to be concerned about. 

Even as his hair falls, even as he feels he is seconds away from dying, he feels nothing but triumphant. 

He is seventeen when it happens once again. 

His body could no longer tolerate the neglect. He collapses in public, and unbeknownst to him, people are screaming. He can't register what could possibly be occurring as he slips away from consciousness. It's days later where he finds himself in a familiar setting. It's one where bright lights are beaming against his face, one where wires are attached to his body, and one where nurses repeatedly ask him the same questions. He should have known this would happen.

A doctor with a slim build makes her way over to him. She takes out a clipboard with forms attached to it. He notices then that there is a small bracelet wrapped around his wrist. This can only indicate one thing, which would be that his stay would last longer than usual.

She starts reading things off the clipboard. Numbers, how low his vitals are, the fatality and damage which comes with having an eating disorder. She says that he will remain hospitalized for several days, until these numbers can once again be stabilized. 

He goes along with this. He does as he's told without kvetching. 

He's released a month later, left with the decision to properly recover. 

He is eighteen when he tries once again. 

He promises himself that after this, he will never see the light of the world ever again. Standing on top of a chair with a rope tied around his neck, he promises himself all will be well after this. It's not that he'll be missing out on much. To even think he was significant enough to leave some kind of impact on the world is a foolish thought. He is nothing but a speck living amongst many other specks.

A small grin spreads on his face as he kicks over the chair without any hesitation. 

_This was it._

Or so he thought.

He wasn't certain of how this could have happened. He was nearly positive that this method should not lead him to failure. And yet it did, because he was in that same familiar room with doctors and nurses who put themselves up to the obligation to care, when he really knew that they didn't. And it was evident that they didn't, because all they had done was question him. It was question after question, and answers were never given. 

Laying on his left wrist was a plastic band. It had covered the many scars that had aligned that area. His name was written out in bold letters: _Goro Akechi,_ it said. 

He didn't feel like having a discussion with any of the doctors. He knew that whatever response he'd give truly would not matter. It would not solve the situation, it would not make things better.

It was horrible. Worse than the first or second time. Simple objects were not allowed in this institution. He was not allowed to eat with proper utensils, his nails had been clipped to an extremely short length, and any sort of object which could be used for a suicide attempt had been removed from his room. This hospital was different from the others. It was one where he would be receiving genuine psychological help. He didn't want this. But he knew of one person who did, and that being his father. He wondered how much money he had given to these people, to have to put up with someone so lost, it must have taken up great sums of money.

When asked to do group therapy, he did not protest. He simply sat there, in silence, as he listened to what the others had to say. Their words were of no importance to him. He did not comprehend the concept behind group therapy. It consisted of nothing but oversharing your problems with strangers. He did not want this. There was nothing more he had wanted in this world, but death.

Evidently, this was something he was not allowed to have. 


End file.
